Chapter Seventeen: Heart-to-Heart
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For a long moment, it seemed to Tony, the workshop was completely silent. Everything that was to follow hinged upon Arno's response. Would the billionaire even know what Hydra was? They hadn't been widely known even back in WWII, the military having kept the organization's existence classified to the point that Hydra was but a vaguely menacing footnote in history. Hydra had been quietly biding their time ever since.
"I'm sorry," Arno finally said, "did you just say 'Hydra'? As in, World War II and Captain America, evil-Nazis Hydra? That Hydra?"
Tony let out the breath he had been unintentionally holding. "That Hydra," he confirmed.
"That Hydra was defeated in 1945," the billionaire stated before Tony could say more, although there was a trace of uncertainty in his tone, "when their leader was brought down by Captain America and the rest of his team went around Europe rooting them out."
"That's not exactly how things turned out. Their numbers were greatly reduced, but since you do know about them, I'm sure you know their slogan."
"'Cut off one head, two more will take its place,'" recited Arno.
"Exactly," said Tony. "They were never fully stopped, they just got better at hiding themselves."
"How long were you with them?"
"Twenty-one years."
"Twen––" Arno began only to cut himself off as he quickly did the math. "You said we're the same age. You cropped up six years ago, if you were with them for twenty-one years, then that means… You were a baby."
Tony gave a grim smile. "Turns out my father's idea of loyalty was to give his infant son over to the fanatics he worked for," he said.
"And your mom?"
"Dead. According to old news sources, she was found murdered about two weeks after I've been told I was born," Tony replied.
"Jesus, Tony," said Arno, looking a little pale. "And they… Did you have any sort of normal childhood?"
"What exactly constitutes normal? Seriously, because I don't know. But considering pretty much all of my handlers viewed me as a tool rather than a kid, my guess is no. I was taught the things they wanted me to know, punished if I learned too slowly––sometimes, I was punished just so I wouldn't forget my place. I was never… Those twenty-one years, I never once thought of myself as a child. I always knew I was an asset, and not even an especially important one."
"Tony, that is horrifying. My god, that is––how are you this well-adjusted?"
"Is that what I am?" Tony asked wryly.
"Shockingly so," said Arno. "I mean, my dad was just hard to please and emotionally unavailable and people think I'm a mess, but you… Tony, sometimes I forget I haven't known you my whole life. Believe me, you have ample reason to be a lot more messed up than you are. And that was before what you've just come back from. God, I should have never let you go."
"That's not on you," the younger man argued. "I wanted to go. What happened isn't your fault. If anything, it's mine for not making sure you knew about the black market sales of your weapons."
"You know what? Let's not play the blame game," the billionaire decided. "Mistakes were made and you just went through hell, now we'll just deal with things from here on out. And we'll be honest with each other. Right?"
Tony had to take a moment to swallow back the lump trying to form in his throat. "Yeah," he agreed. "Arno, I'm really sor––"
"Nope," Arno interrupted. "We're also done with apologies. So, unless there's some other big important thing you've been keeping from me..?"
Tony started to shake his head, then immediately stopped. There were several other details to his story he probably ought to fill in, and would when he felt a little less raw. But there was one immensely important thing he needed to tell Arno now unless he wished to let it put a rift between them in the future.
"What is it?" Arno asked, easily reading the enormity of the next truth from whatever expression Tony had on his face. "You can't seriously have anything worse than what you already told me. Tony? T, look––you know you don't have to tell me everything, right? You're allowed to have secrets. Of course you are; we both are. I just think if it's something likely to come o––"
"Your parents were murdered."
"––ut, then… I'm sorry, what?"
"Your parents were murdered," Tony repeated, heart hammering against the arc reactor as he struggled to keep his tone even without also sounding unfeeling. "December 16th––"
"My father was an alcoholic," countered Arno, words a bit strained. "It was nighttime. The roads were slick. He wrapped their car around a tree."
"It wasn't an accident."
"You're telling me that Hydra––an organization that's no longer supposed to forget––had my parents killed."
Lips pressing together in a grim line, Tony nodded, gaze falling to his hands.
"Why?"
"According to the files, your father had been deemed a threat."
"And my mom?" Arno's voice had taken on a slight rasp, emotion he was attempting to keep down leaking out.
"She was just collateral damage," Tony replied quietly. "I'm sorry."
"'Just'? She was 'just'..? My mom had never been just anything," the billionaire snarled, tone abruptly rising, "and for you to suggest she was simply collateral ––"
"Arno, that is not what I meant," Tony protested.
"Well, that's how it came out!" Arno snapped.
Tony winced. Silence settled over the workshop like a dense fog. He tried to remember the last time things had ever been this tense between Arno and himself. The answer was never. Never had they been at such odds. Tony had miscalculated.
"I'm sorry," Tony whispered uselessly. He turned to hurry back upstairs.
Behind him, Arno gave a testy-sounding sigh. "Tony!" he called after him.
Tony didn't stop, pushing his way through the door. Before it could close again, he heard something crashing across the workshop. Tony didn't turn back to find out what. He fled upstairs to his room.
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He'd messed up. Arno knew he had messed up, but in his defense, it was a lot to process. Hydra was supposed to be relegated to history, not alive and well and raising kids to be… whatever the hell Tony was. A tool? Or would it be more accurate to assume he was meant to be some sort of weapon? And now it was Arno keeping something from Tony.
At least, he was pretty sure Tony didn't know about that.
Then, there was the thing with his parents. His mother had been wonderful; a kind, loving woman who'd made him feel cherished. Howard––his father––had been admittedly a little distant, as though he didn't know what to do with an offspring. They had seldom gotten along but Arno had never doubted that the man loved him as best he knew how. Arno had certainly loved both his parents. To learn after all these years that they had been murdered…
It was no wonder he had taken the revelation badly. Of course he had lashed out. And he'd taken it out on Tony, who Arno did not for a moment believe deserved it. God, could his timing on that have been any worse?
Once he'd managed to shove all his messy emotions into a box to deal with later (i.e. never), Arno made his way up from the workshop. Pepper gave him a look somewhere between concern and censure, gesturing towards the stairs with the correct assumption he was looking for Tony. Since neither the food nor Clint seemed to have arrived yet, less time than he'd expected must have passed.
"Hey, Marty*, look––" Arno began, tapping on Tony's half-open door as he looked inside, only to find the room vacant. "Tony?"
"If I may, sir," JARVIS spoke up, "Master Tony is currently in the guest bathroom."
"Why is he using the guest bathroom?"
"I wouldn't precisely say that he is using it, in the traditional sense of the word."
Frowning up at the ceiling––and really, he blamed Tony for that habit; JARVIS wasn't in the ceiling––Arno backed out of Tony's room and made his way towards the bathroom set aside for guests. The door was shut, so he knocked. When there was no answer, and trusting JARVIS' assertion that Tony wasn't doing his business or anything of the like, he tried the handle to find the door was unlocked.
"Tony?" Arno called as he pushed it open and stepped inside.
He didn't see the other man, at first. Then again, he hadn't been expecting to find Tony sitting on the floor of the shower with his back pressed to the corner and knees pulled up to his chest. Crossing the tile floor, Arno paused a moment before tugging open the glass door. Tony didn't move, his elbows still propped against his knees as his hands curled over his head.
"Why are you sitting in the shower?" asked Arno, looking around as though the room itself might offer up an answer. It did not.
"Closet was too big," Tony murmured quietly.
Arno's attention snapped back to the man. "The closet was..? Oh, god, are you––" he broke off, horrified by the implications, by the realization that Tony sitting in here was some sort of self-punishment. What he must have gone through for something to be conditioned into him years after the fact. "Okay, we have surpassed the daily quota of horrifying things you can say to me. Three days ago, you were stumbling through the desert. This is not where you should be resting. Come on. Up you get."
He stepped into the shower and took Tony's arm, helping him up to his feet. Tony let him, leaning back against the shower wall once he was upright. Miserable brown eyes found Arno's face.
"I'm sorry," Tony told him again.
"Hey, no," Arno responded before the other man could continue. "I don't––I'm not mad at you, Tony. It's not your fault. And I know you didn't mean any harm by keeping things from me. I wish you hadn't, especially the weapons thing, but I get it. Why you did it. Mostly, you just wanted to protect yourself. No one can blame you for that, T. But I also think, in part, you were also trying to protect me? At least a bit?"
Tony studied his features with that same wariness he hadn't really shown since the first few days after they'd become acquainted. It hurt to see, even if Arno knew he deserved it. After a moment, Tony gave a jerky nod.
Arno offered a reassuring smile. "I know you didn't mean for me to get hurt, Tony, anymore than I meant for you to get hurt. And maybe we could have prevented what you've just had to go through, and maybe not. We can't change the past. So, we'll just work on figuring things out for the future. Right?"
"Yeah," Tony agreed a bit more readily, finally allowing himself to be coaxed out of the shower (for which Arno was internally grateful).
"I'm sorry I shouted at you."
"It's okay."
"No. No, Tony, it's not okay," Arno insisted. "You've just come back from hell, then bared your freaking soul, and I practically bit your head off. You don't deserve that."
"You were upset," Tony said as they maneuvered out of the bathroom and down the hall. He turned towards the stairs rather than let Arno steer him back towards his room.
"That's not an excuse, Tony. I really am sorry."
"Well, I'm sorry, too," the younger man countered.
"I know," the billionaire replied, "you already told me. I forgive you, okay? Water under the bridge."
"I forgive you, too," Tony said.
Arno gave him a warm little smile. "Thanks, T."
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To be continued...